Hey Team,
Here's a first look at that fiction piece I've been working on. Enjoy!
~ ~ ~
“You’ll be the one, Dash,” the official says quietly, lest the other runners hear.
“Thank you, sir.”
Dash Thorogood takes a deep breath and dances on the starting line, bouncing on his toes and letting his relaxed arms swing free. Wembley Stadium is packed on this warm August evening.
I had my annual physical this week.
That's a loaded way to start the blog. So let me start over:
I broke my reading glasses yesterday. Had them folded into the neck of my t-shirt when I lifted Sadie out of the back seat of the Rover. I read that letting her jump down from the vehicle is bad for her joints and I want to prolong her life and health as much as possible.
The Astorinos held a BBQ last night. They were kind enough to invite me. We have a great neighborhood but I've been reclusive these past six months. It was nice to catch up.
Calene had a birthday last week, which I made it through without tears. I learned the hard way that paying tribute by kissing the gravestone may be a sentimental and heartfelt gesture, but is a very bad idea when the temperature is 103 degrees and the stone is polished black granite.
I've written before about my morning ritual with the yellow legal pad. It's nothing unusual, me getting my bearings by writing down the events of the day. The same list is already in my phone's calendar app, but if I write it down on paper it seems to stamp the day a little more firmly on my brain. On Sundays I go one better, writing down the entire week to come.
I just finished A Gentleman in Moscow for the third time. I like the ending so much that I immediately reread the last forty pages. I've never read the great Russian writers, so next up is Anna Karenina. It's a big book. I have trouble with big books. Everyone raves about The Count of Monte Cristo but I couldn't get through it. Someday I will go back and start from page one with a different translation, but for now the Count is on my list of failed attempts to read classic books.
It mirrors my own failure to finish writing a novel.
Home from Mammoth yesterday. I'm back in the splendor of my backyard, looking over at the mesa on the other side of Trabuco Canyon. The air is warm and smells of late summer. Light morning breeze. A vase of sunflowers to my right. A couple notebooks on the table. All manner of stone paperweights (from the soon to be late, great Stone Brewery) holding the tablecloth in place. a penitent Sadie curled up at my feet.
Penitent? We'll get to that.
One tradition when I come to Mammoth is to stop at Roberto's for Mexican food. I have the same thing every time: a duck taco with rice and beans, and one of their specialty margaritas. The one I like is called "Herra-the-dog" because it's made with silver tequila. So that's the way I ordered it the other night: "Herra-the-dog, rocks, salt."
I didn't go anywhere this weekend.
After filling the summer with flights from grief (literally), I cancelled a New York trip to see the USA National Track and Field Championships and attend a Foundation board meeting. Stayed home to coach the long run, watch the Tour for hours at a time, and sit on the porch with a good book. Maybe crack a few beers….
